


Care

by TheOtherCourse (kanevixen)



Series: Tom and Abigail Series [53]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Awards, Awards Presentation, BRIT Awards, F/M, Fan Characters, Inspired By Tumblr, Internet, References to Shakespeare, Social Media, Tumblr, Twitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanevixen/pseuds/TheOtherCourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a 100 drabble challenge on tumblr, based on a single word, CARE.</p><p>Tom and Abigail have made their public debut as a couple at the Olivier Awards after two plus years of dating (Tattoo and Fashion). Abby gets caught up in the internet frenzy afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> **Care**

_Loki’s got a girlfriend – NNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOO_

_Tom Hiddleston had a date to the Oliviers. It looked serious._

_Lucky bitch!_

_Who’s the cow with Tom Hiddleston?_

_Aw! She’s cute. I hope he’s happy._

_I think that’s Abigail Morgan. She did a play with Tom a few years ago. I think with Ben, too._

_She looks familiar. Who is she?_

_Tom Hiddleston brought a date, about freaking time._

_She looks a right mess. What is he thinking?_

_Is that Tom Hiddleston’s girlfriend?_

 

_Bloody Hell! Is he married to that bint?_

_Someone make this not be so._

_Nope._

_No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no_

_She doesn’t look good enough for him._

_Unpopular opinion, I think Tom Hiddleston’s girlfriend is cute._

_^^^^ THIS_

_Calm your tits. It’s one date. We don’t know who she is or if this is serious._

_I found pictures! She’s been seen around Hiddleston or the Hiddleston camp for a few years. Loki’s got himself a girlfriend… unless Luke changed his sexuality._

_Can’t we be happy for him if it is a girlfriend?_

_I don’t think he’s dating anyone._

_I think that’s her! She did that charity thing with Benedict… who’s got the link to that?_

_The Hiddlestoners have lost their shit._

_I think I’m dying._

_UNDO IT_

“Abby… Sweetheart… Abby, you’ve been watching that twitter and tumblr feed for an hour.”

I sighed, and hit the refresh button with the mouse again. Still in my dress, I was sitting in the same position I had since Tom and I returned from the Oliviers, cross-legged on the kitchen table with my laptop open in front of me. I had two open tabs that I was actively watching. “Tom, some of these people are really mean.”

My boyfriend was in the living room, back to me, sitting on the sofa, answering messages and texts from Coriolanus castmembers and his mates, thanking them for their well wishes and their better luck next time notes. Almost distractedly, he said, “Close your computer, baby.”

“But Tom… they called me a cow, a bitch and I’m not good enough for you. They don’t even know me!”

“Abby, close your computer, baby.”

I thought tonight had gone swimmingly except that Tom didn’t win for his portrayal as Caius Martius. I knew how much he wanted it, after enjoying the production so much. He had been so relaxed in the routine of doing eight performances a week, living at home instead of out of a suitcase, spending time with family and friends. He really found his stride in London, and it showed.

I saw the disappointment in him, and I could feel how upset he was in how he held my hand after the announcement was made. I watched his profile for a few minutes and his expression had hardened, so subtle that I don’t think anyone would notice. During applause breaks, I whispered words of encouragement.

“You’re bloody brilliant, my beautiful man. You don’t need an award to tell you that.”

“I’m so proud of you, and your performance was flawless.”

“You’re my winner and always my choice. I love you.”

When we returned home after dinner at the awards ceremony, I couldn’t help it, I had to check the fallout and the backlash of stepping out on Tom’s arm. Both Tom and Luke warned and encouraged me not to, but I had to know. My lover had very passionate, infinitely loyal and overly protective fans, and there were a great many of them, if his one million plus twitter follower count was anything to go by. I did my best to ignore that they were there, careful not to think about it. I wanted to see pictures of Tom and me as a couple on the red carpet, and then curiosity got the better of me.

I gasped as a particularly heartless and cruel tweet appeared to a certain @ twhiddleston about his dating choice.

Tom ordered sternly, concern saturated through it, “Baby, close twitter. Close tumblr. Shut off your computer and come here.” Tom cared for me and didn’t want to see me upset by some of the more nasty things said on the internet.

Objecting to the heinous remark, I retorted at the screen, “Well, that’s just unnecessary!” To Tom in the other room, “One of them hated my dress and had some very colorful language about it!”

“Abby, do you like your dress?”

“I love my dress!”

“That’s all that matters. Close down your computer, baby, before you go mad. You’ll make yourself sick with worry.”

There was a small pocket of fans that figured out who I was, and word was quickly spreading through tumblr. #abigail morgan became a tag on tumblr and it was blowing my mind. There were photosets of me in the background in Australia for the Thor sequel press junket tour, at the London premiere of Life of Pi, sitting beside Tom at Wimbledon and me with Luke at San Diego Comic Con. Within minutes, they’d found my CV and coupled it with press photos of some of my bigger roles on the West End, including the play I did with Tom when we first got together and the play I did with Ben.

Surreal how fast information gets out there. “Tom, they know who I am now.”

I could hear the smile in his voice from my perch on the kitchen table. “Baby, you’re not unknown in the London theatre community and Google works.”

I muttered under my breath at his assertive, knowing response, “Google this, Hiddleston.”

Tom was chuckling in response as I hit reload again, another flood of angry, hurt, derogatory, depressed, happy, elated and passive messages filled my screen. The mixed messages that my man was perfect but they wanted to smack his face utterly confused me. I scrolled through more outrage and good wishes. “Do you think we should send help to some of these people? They seem to be in pain or dying based on their comments.”

“What comments?”

Flatly, “I’m dying.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’ve seen it lots.”

“Abby, you’re obsessing. Close the internet and step away from the computer.”

I cackled and screeched, “One is making dying whale noises, and she typed that!”

Despite himself, Tom laughed out loud, putting his iPhone aside and plugging it in to charge. He got to his feet and started to come to me. “That sounds painful.”

“Woooooooo! I found the randy crowd!”

“What does it say?” He asked, crossing from the foyer and hallway into the kitchen.

“I’m not telling you that, dirty man. Some of this should not be repeated in polite company.” Ignoring him momentarily, I read the computer monitor and blankly stated, “Hey, you’ve got a wife. Her screen name is mrstwhiddleston23. Is there something you want to tell me?”

“Yes,” he said with a huge grin. “Close the computer!”

I stuck my tongue out at him, staring back down at the laptop.

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen table, you little minx?”

“Hush up, married man! It’s mistress to you.” I held a finger up to him as I read a rather violent tweet. “I’m reading. Your fans are…”

“Passionate. Ignore it, mistress,” he said growling.

“I think some of them need an intervention.”

“I need an intervention. It’s been nearly a full day since I’ve been in-”

Derailing his train of thought, I announced, “I think I need one of those twitter accounts.”

“I don’t think there’s enough bandwidth to contain your sass, baby.”

I booped him on the nose with my forefinger. “You know it.”

He leaned over my laptop to give me a chaste kiss while the cyberworld continued its suffering some kind of meltdown, descending into further depths of debauchery and madness. With a low, sultry voice, he murmured, “Close that now.”

“I think they need me.”

Drinking and luring me in, he said, “I need you.” His meaning was clear from the predatory look and the low register, husky tone. He dropped his mouth to my exposed shoulder and kissed the bare skin.

“But what about my twitter account?”

He half smiled against my shoulder and stated to slide my laptop from me. “What about my needs?” He scraped his teeth over my shoulder, placing my computer on the table beside me.

“Can I use your twitter?”

He laughed as he slid the strap of my dress from its rightful place to lightly bite down on the muscle there. “No.”

My hands went to the lapels of his jacket and began working it off his body. “What’s your password?”

“No.” Using his lips, he traced the line of my collarbone, nibbling along the way.

“That’s not your password. I think one half of Tabby should make a social network stance.”

He paused in his seduction to look at me with confusion and amusement, “Tabby?”

“They gave us a shipper name. Tom plus Abby equals Tabby, T. Hiddy.”

“Right. That’s it,” he stated, scooping me up and slinging me over his shoulder. “No more internet for you.”


End file.
